


Atlantis: The Lost Hero

by ElfGrove



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Atlantis: The Lost Empire Fusion, Atlantis, For Shits and Giggles, M/M, May/December Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-08 17:51:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14110788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElfGrove/pseuds/ElfGrove
Summary: Just for fun, a Jasico AU based on "Atlantis: The Lost Empire".





	Atlantis: The Lost Hero

**Author's Note:**

> Blame the mini Discord chat of old hats getting together. Thanks y'all.

“…in a single day and night of misfortune,  
the island of Atlantis disappeared  
into the depths of the sea.”  
**– Plato, 360 B.C.**

* * *

 Nico barely recalled that night. He’d been a child. A toddler really. He remembered rushing limbs that towered above him and dropping his favorite toy while trying desperately to keep up with his mother rushing across the smooth pavestone streets.

Maria Di Angelo’s face, dark eyes boring into his own, “Nico! Just leave it! There’s no time!”

Then the light. It had enveloped them both, shifting colors as Maria turned away, eyes glazed over and blank, glowing with her crystal. Her hands limply falling away from him as she stepped towards… something… that hovered above them. Then she’d begun to float away, taking a bracelet she’d given him with her.

Just floating, up into the light and the sky. Even though that was impossible.

His father, Hades, gathering him up into his arms as he screamed for her, “Close your eyes, Nico! Look away!”

He’d wake up from the nightmare in a cold sweat.

It was a nonsensical dream, but one he’d had for ages. It was as much a part of him as the uneven flagstone was a part of the city streets. It was simply how things were.

He pushed his hair back from his face, rising to meet the new day.

* * *

**Washington, D.C. 1914**

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. First off, I’d like to thank this board for taking the time to hear my proposal.” The young man brushed hands down his slightly too small suit that strained across the shoulders in a just-out-of-fashion cut. “Now we’ve all heard the legend of Atlantis, a continent somewhere in the mid-Atlantic that was home to an advanced civilization possessing technology far beyond our own, that according to our friend Plato here was suddenly struck by some cataclysmic event that sank it beneath the sea.”

He pulled out a carefully calligraphed pasteboard, using the gesture to hide the nervous sweep of fingers through blonde hair, “Now some of you may ask, why Atlantis? It’s just a myth, isn’t it? Pure fantasy.” Wink at knowingly the audience, turn to the next board, he mentally choreographed himself. “Well, that is where you’d be wrong! 10,000 years before the Egyptians built the pyramids, Atlantis had electricity, advanced medicine, even the power of flight! Impossible you say? Well, no. No! Not for them!”

He leaned forward over the podium, conspiratorially, “Numerous ancient culture all over the globe agree that Atlantis possessed a power source of some kind. More powerful than steam, than—than coal. More powerful than our modern combustion engines! Gentlemen, I propose that we find Atlantis, find that power source, and bring it back to the surface!”

He clenched his fist, looking up towards the ceiling with a sudden surge of confidence. “Now this is a page from an illuminated text that describes a book, called The Shepard’s Journal, said to have been a first-hand account of Atlantis and its exact whereabouts. Now, based on a centuries-old translation of a Norse text,” He squeezed awkwardly through the space between the podium and the blackboard he’d set up, his wide frame forcing both to move to accommodate him and making the podium squeak awkwardly while the wheeled black board tried to roll away and nearly off the small raised stage. He caught it, just barely, twisting awkwardly as he tried to continue his speech.

“Historians have believed the journal resides in Ireland. But after comparing the text to the runes on this Viking shield,” he rushed to hoist it up, jostling the blackboard and nearly overbalancing in his haste, he managed to lift it with a grunt. “I found that one of the letters had been mistranslated.” He reached for the eraser with his free hand, and found it missing, likely on the floor if not behind the stage entirely. He fumbled for the chalk instead, smearing the ‘R’ from Ireland with his cuff, ignoring the white streak it created on his jacket. This was too important to worry over small details like that. He hastily replaced the letter with a ‘C’ as he spoke, “So by changing this letter, and inserting the correct one, we find that the Shepard’s Journal, the key to Atlantis, les not in Ireland, gentlemen, but in Iceland!”

“Pause for effect,” He whispered to himself, triumphantly grinning as he drummed his fingers along the edge of the shield. This was it. This was the discovery that would fund his expedition. They had to agree with him now. “Gentlemen, I’ll—”

The phone began to ring, and he startled backwards, knocking into the blackboard and sending it rolling off the tiny stage, to clatter loudly as it jumped down a good 10 inches, spraying chalk dust everywhere in its betrayal. He glanced back inelegantly to his audience, wincing. “Just, uhh, give me a moment.”

He jumped off the stage, squeezing into the even tinier than normal space between it and his desk, clambering for the phone, “Cartography and Linguistics, Jason Grace speaking.” A familiar, angry litany erupted before he’d even finished his introduction and he dropped the receiver without needing to hear the rest of it, “Yeah, uh, just— just a second.”

He turned the lights back up as he crossed the room, shoulders slumped as his audience was shown to be props and old statues. This was only practice for the real event after all. He was determined to be prepared. This time. It was the work of moments to fiddle with the knobs and levers of the old boiler, ending with a firm tap from a heavy wrench waiting for just that use.

He didn’t bother stepping off the back of the stage again this time, simply leaning over the portable blackboard to pick up the phone again, “There. That better?”

More too familiar grumbles, but they were satisfied and hung up on him without a word of thanks. He turned back to his practice audience, straightening his shoulders. Sure, he was stuffed into a basement office, sharing the room with the boiler and treated more as the finicky device’s personal caretaker than the tenured professor of linguistics that he was, but that was fine. He didn’t need a extravagant office on the upper floors. He was supposed to be out leading research expeditions; the office was just a place to return to between jaunts around the world and store his papers. As soon as he got a research grant to go on an expedition. It was going to happen.

Thunk.

He looked over to the tube system that delivered messages around the building and the canister that had just arrived. He scurried over, stomach already dropping to his feet. They’d done this before. He fumbled the message out scanning the contents with sinking hopes.

“…meeting has been moved up from 4:30 to 3:30 pm,” His eyes darted to the clock, already knowing the answer. It was 3:45. He started scrambling for his notes and pasteboards even as another cannister thumped into place. He jerked it out of the tube, reading the next memo, “Due to your absence… voted to reject… Have a nice weekend!?”

He grabbed the stack of pasteboards in a fit of sudden anger and began running for the stairs. Not again. They weren’t doing this again. They had to at least hear him out! He was willing to stake everything on this. He’d planned to… The letter burned in his coat pocket. His final gambit. “They can’t do this to me!”

* * *

 He rounded the frame of the door to the staircase just as the board members were spilling out of the meeting room.

“I swear, that young Grace gets crazier every year!”

“If I ever hear the word ‘Atlantis’ again, I'll step in front of a bus!”

There was boisterous laughter as the men exchanged handshakes, “I’ll push you!”

Jason raised a hand as he moved down the hall towards them, “Mr. Chiron!”

“Good Lord!”

“There he is!”

This was his only chance, he started in on the speech, “Members of the board… Wait!”

They were scattering.

“Wait!”

The different board members ducked into offices and into stairwells. He had to make a choice. The head of the board. He ducked into the elevator with the elder man just before the doors closed, “Mr. Chiron! You gotta listen to me, sir! I have new evidence that—”

He slammed the button for the lobby with his cane, smacking Jason in the stomach and knocking the air out of him in the same movement. “Mr. Grace, this museum funds scientific expeditions based on facts, not legends and folklore.” His expression took a turn from angry and dismissive to grandfatherly, “Besides, we need you here. We depend on you.”

Jason raised his eyebrows hopefully, “You do?”

“Yes! What with winter coming, that boiler's going to need a lot of attention.”

“Boiler?” Jason scowled, his hackles raising as he straightened himself, rising to his full height, “But there’s a journal! It's in Iceland! I'm sure of it this time!”

The elevator thumped as it stopped at the main lobby, doors opening with a creak. Mr. Chiron tried to move past him into the lobby and away. Dismissing Jason. Dismissing his expedition. Dismissing Atlantis.

The old man stepped out, thumping across the lobby even as Jason stepped out behind him, setting his feet as he stood in the middle of the great museum lobby, his raised voice drawing the attention of patrons coming in for the final tour of the day.

“Sir, I really hoped it wouldn't come to this, but this is, uhh,” He fumbled in his suit until he produced the crisply folded paper that waited there. Chalk dust flaked off his suit in a puff like smoke. “This is a letter of resignation. If you reject my proposal, I’ll… Whoa!”

He hadn’t expected the speed with which the old man turned back on him, the end of his cane slamming down dangerously close to his foot as Jason flinched at the man who glared up at him.

“I’ll—I’ll quit!” He hadn’t intended to stutter, but he squared his shoulders and glared back despite the slip, “I mean it, sir. If you refuse to fund my proposal—”

“You'll what?” Chiron growled, “Flush your career down the toilet just like your mother? You have a lot of potential, Jason. Don't throw it all away chasing fairy tales.”

“But I can prove Atlantis exists!”

“You want to go on an expedition?” Chiron hissed, throwing a few coins against Jason’s chest, “Here. Take a trolley to the Potomac and jump in! Maybe the cold water will clear your head.”

Chiron turned and stomped away, leaving Jason too upset and humiliated to respond.

* * *

He opened the door to his flat, cold from the rain and tipsy from the beers he had to console himself after leaving the museum. All he wanted now was to cuddle up with his cat under a blanket and continue feeling sorry for himself. He had all weekend to decide whether or not he would return to the museum on Monday, and what he would do if he didn’t.

“I’m home. Tempest?” He clucked his tongue invitingly, “Here kitty.”

There was a flash of lightning as he reached for the light switch, illuminating a figure lounging in the armchair by his window. He jumped backwards, slamming the door closed behind him in his alarm.

“Jason Jupiter Grace?’ A tall, svelte woman slowly rose from the chair, sharp eyes and blonde hair highlighted by the glow from the streets outside.

“Who are you?” Jason reached behind himself, fingers scrabbling for something he could use to defend himself. As if he had the first clue how to fight. “How—How did you get in here?”

“I came down the chimney. Ho ho ho.” Sex dripped from her voice as she let her fur lined coat slip to reveal bare stripes of shoulder. When he didn’t respond to the exposed skin except to inch further away, she changed tack, voice becoming all business, “My name is Annabeth Chase. I’m here on behalf of my employer, who has a proposition for you.”

“Your—Your employer?”

* * *

 He followed Ms. Chase across the entry hall of a mansion. Not just any mansion, this dwarfed anything he’d seen in his life. Rich tapestries, soaring columns, expensive paintings and artifacts strewn about like discarded toys.

“Step lively. Mr. Ramirez-Arellano hates to be kept waiting.” Annabeth Chase’s sharp voice demanded his focus as she led him deeper into the labyrinth of wealth. “You will address him as ‘Mr. Ramirez’ or ‘Sir.’ You will stand unless asked to be seated. Keep your sentences short and to the point. Are we clear?”

Jason stopped outside an arching doorway when Chase did, gulping audibly as she placed her hand on the knob.

“And relax,” She advised smoothly as she swung the door open and shoved him in with a smirk. “He doesn't bite... often.”

Like the other rooms he’d passed through, this one was strewn with treasures and art from a dozen cultures, seemly with no order to the madness. He stepped cautiously forward. The room seemed to be just as unoccupied as the others, save for the fire lit in a hearth the size of a automobile. He stopped below it, looking up at a painted portrait of two people, a handsome man with sun-warmed dark skin, piercing brown eyes, and dark hair seemed to be laughing, one arm slung over the shoulder of a slightly sunburned but beautiful woman with blonde hair and bright blue eyes who held up a Grecian amphora with a triumphant smile.

Jason’s heart stuttered to a stop as he looked up at the familiar face, “Mom?”

“Finest explorer I ever met,” The accented voice was fond, and Jason turned to see a man he had mistaken for a bit statuary step forward, offering his hand. He was wearing an old Roman helmet and carrying a spear. Sweat dripped across his brow as if he’d been working out. “Julian Ramirez-Arellano. Pleasure to meet you, Jason.”

Jason took his hand tentatively, wincing at the strength in the man’s grip. “Thank you. You… you knew my mother?”

“Oh yes. Beryl and I went way back. Graduated Georgetown together.” The man stepped further out of the shadows to place the weapon and helmet on a stand next to Jason, dark eyes focused on the painting above them. “We stayed close friends until the end of her days. She even dragged me along on some of her hair-brained expeditions. Grace was crazy as a fruit bat.” He turned to look at Jason speculatively, “She spoke of you often.”

Jason bit his bottom lip, still staring at the painting. His mother had been absentee a lot, off on her expeditions, but when she’d been around… She’d been the light of his world. He’d been so young when she died, nearing finishing secondary school. His relatives had shuffled him from one boarding school to the next after that. He looked at the dark stranger, old to him, but probably around the age his mother would have been had she lived. “Funny,” He said slowly. “She never mentioned you.”

“Oh, she wouldn't.” He turned away from Jason, walking to a heavy oak desk and rifling through it’s contents. “She knew how much I liked my privacy. I keep a low profile.”

“Mr. Ramirez,” Jason started carefully, approaching the desk as if were approaching a wild animal. “Sir, should I be wondering why I'm here?”

“Look at that,” Julian produced a package wrapped in butcher paper and slapped it to the top of the desk. “It's for you.”

Jason picked up the suspicious looking thing delicately, unsure what to expect. It was large, but solid. He carefully turned it over in his hands until he found the note written in messy penmanship on the front. He took a sudden shaky inhale, pressing the thing to his chest protectively, “It's—it’s from my mother.”

“Beryl brought that package to me years ago.” Julian came around the desk to place a hand on Jason’s shoulder while he sniffed hard, trying to hold back a tear. Clearly, he shouldn’t have been drinking earlier tonight. “She said if anything were to happen to her, I should give that to you when you were ready, whatever that means.”

“It—It can't be.” Jason unwrapped it hurriedly, the cheap paper falling away to reveal a leather-bound book with metal fittings and symbols he would have bet… It had to be. This was… This was EVERYTHING. His and his mother’s life’s work. Atlantis. All the information he needed to find it. The Rosetta stone to the greatest archeological mystery of all time. “It's the Shepherd's Journal. Mr. Ramirez, this journal is the key to finding the lost continent of Atlantis!”

“Atlantis!” He laughed, turning away to thumb through more papers on the desk as if ready to dismiss Jason. His duty to deliver the book discharged, he didn’t care. Just like the board members at the museum, they didn’t care about Atlantis. “I wasn't born yesterday, son.”

“No!” Jason felt his cheeks heat up as he raised his chin defiantly. He thumbed through the book quickly, “Look—look at this! Coordinates. Clues. It's all right here!”

“Yeah,” Julian turned back to him, raising a dubious eyebrow. “Looks like gibberish to me.”

Jason cradled the book close as he scanned the symbols firelight reflecting in the edge of his glasses as he smiled fondly at it, “That's because it's been written in a dialect that no longer exists.”

“So it's useless.”

“No,” Jason didn’t even bother looking up at the man now. “No, just difficult. I've spent my whole life studying dead languages. It's not gibberish to me.”

“Ah, it's probably a fake.”

That grabbed his attention back to the now, out of the new language. His brow furrowed and he adjusted his glasses as he glared at this stranger that would dare claim to be his mother’s friend, then belittle her discovery. His voice was slow, tone dark and venomous, “Mr. Ramirez, my mother would have known if this were a fake. I would know. I will stake everything I own, everything that I believe in, that this is the genuine Shepherd's Journal.”

“All right,” Julian leaned back against the heavy desk, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked Jason up and down as if re-evaluating him. “All right. So what do you want to do with it?”

“Well, I’ll,” Jason blinked at him, brain running in circles. “I’ll get funding. I mean, the museum—"

Julian snorted derisively, “They'll never believe you.”

“I'll show them!” Jason closed the book, tucking it protectively at his side, “I will make them believe!”

“Like you did today?”

“Yes!” Jason faltered, “Well, no. How did you—”

Julian’s imperious look stopped him mid-sentence.

Jason shook his head to clear it. Screw this. “Forget about them, OK? Never mind! I will find Atlantis on my own.” He’d sell everything he owned. He’d go it alone if he had to. This was worth it. “I mean, if I have to rent a rowboat! I’ll—"

“Congratulations, Jason.” Julian’s voice was the same warm tone now it had been when he’d first mentioned Beryl now. “This is exactly what I wanted to hear. But forget the rowboat, son. We'll travel in style.” He motioned Jason to follow him to another table where he pulled away a sheet to reveal the most advanced ship Jason had seen in his life, carved out in miniature. “It's all been arranged, the whole ball of wax.”

Jason felt his jaw work up and down several times before he found words, “Why?”

“For years your mother bent my ear with stories about that old book.” Julian stepped past him, crossing to another shelf of artifacts and knick-knacks, “I didn't buy it for a minute. So finally, I got fed up and made a bet with the insufferable magpie. I said, ‘Grace, if you ever actually find that so-called journal not only will I finance the expedition, but I'll kiss you full on the mouth!’"

He handed Jason a framed photo depicting an older Julian and Beryl, both making disgusted faces and spitting, clearly having just kissed. His mother held the Shepherd’s Journal.

“Imagine my embarrassment when she found the darn thing.” He returned the photo to its place as Jason handed it back, smiling fondly. “Now I know your mother's gone, Jason—God rest her soul – but Julian Ramirez-Arellano is a man who keeps his word.” He shook a fist at the big portrait that hung over the fireplace, “You hear that, Beryl? I'm going to the afterlife with a clear conscience, by thunder!”

He chuckled as he turned back to Jason, then sighed, “Your mother was a great woman. You probably don't realize how great. Those buffoons at the museum dragged her down, belittled her work, her discoveries, made everyone think she was mad and a drunk, made a laughingstock of her. She died a broken woman. If I could bring back just one shred of proof, that'd be enough for me.”

“Mr. Ramirez…”

“Ah, Grace.” He shook his head, as if he had to remind himself he stood with the son instead of the mother now. “What are we standing around for? We got work to do.”

“But, Mr. Ramirez, you know, in order to do what you're proposing, you're gonna need a crew.”

“Taken care of!”

Jason started making a mental list, friend of his mother’s or not, people just didn’t realize how much varied expertise would be needed to successfully perform an expedition like this. He couldn’t run off half-cocked, “You'll need engineers and—and geologists.”

“Got 'em all. The best of the best.” Julian sank into a plush chair, gesturing for Jason to do the same as he produced a folder full of profiles, “Percy Jackson, geology and excavation. The man has a nose for dirt. Leo Valdez, demolitions. Busted him out of a Mexican prison. Clarisse La Rue. Don't let her age fool you. She's forgotten more about engines than you or I will ever know. They're the same crew that brought the Journal back.”

“Where was it?”

“Iceland.”

“I knew it!” Jason punched the air triumphantly and fell into a chair, “I knew it!”

“All we need now is an expert in gibberish.” Julian stared at him knowingly, “So it's decision time. You can build on the foundation your mother left you, or you can go back to your boiler room.”

“I’m not drunk,” Jason muttered mostly to himself. “This is for real.”

“Now you're catching on.”

“All right. OK.” Jason removed his glasses, and took out a handkerchief, cleaning them methodically, “I—I—I’ll have to quit my job.”

“It's done,” Julian countered. “You resigned this afternoon.”

“I did?”

“Yep. Don't like to leave loose ends.”

“Um, my apartment. I have to give notice.”

“Taken care of.”

“My clothes?”

“Packed.”

“My books?”

“In storage.”

“My cat?” As if on cue, the grey tomcat jumped into his lap from wherever he’d been with a proprietary meow, “My gosh.”

“Your mother had a saying,” Julian smiled triumphantly. “’Our lives are remembered by the gifts we leave our children.’ This journal is her gift to you, Jason. Atlantis is waiting. What do you say?”

“I'm your man, Mr. Ramirez.” He stood up, blue eyes piercing the elder man’s as he offered his hand, “You will not regret this.”


End file.
